The Empty Office
The Emotional Struggle of Becoming an Empty-Nester
Every weekday, my morning routine begins in my home office. It’s where I meditate, write, reflect, and get the engine running.
But this morning, it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t right. It was just a big empty room.
Last night, my son came and loaded up a bunch of furniture for his new rental house. The desk in my office was one of a handful of pieces he took, along with a sleeper sofa we’d saved for him from our old house, a bookshelf, and a few things from his bedroom, which is now also nearly empty.
While a small and insignificant detail in and of its own (I have a new desk being delivered tomorrow), sitting in my meditation chair and looking across my empty office reminds me of all the transitions we are experiencing. Transitions that neither feel normal nor feel like something we could really ever prepare to experience.
Our kids are growing up and moving away.
Today it was my son, beginning his Junior year and moving into his first rental. Next week it will be our middle daughter, beginning her own Freshman year away at college. And around a year from today, it will be our youngest who will finally leave the nest.
And then it will be just us.
It struck me in that empty office that our lives are changing, whether we are prepared for that change or not.
As I sat there surveying all the open space around me, the room never felt bigger or more lonely. I was flooded with emotions. Some were not so positive like sadness, longing, loss, and wondering. But there was also an element of hope, adventure, and possibility.
I suppose it will always be this way with change. There are always two sides to that coin. One side of what was, and the other of what could be.
Our kids are growing up. They are off to face their own battles, find their own ways, and live the ups and downs of adulthood.
And we are soon-to-be empty nesters. Struggling with the overwhelming silence that has replaced the frenetic pace of being a parent. Learning to cope with the quiet that replaces the hustle and bustle of kids coming and going, doors slamming, laughter, tears, and food disappearing from the pantry at a ridiculous pace to now having crap we throw away because we cannot consume it all before it expires.
My wife has already commented on how quiet and boring life will be when they are gone. More alone time. Fewer interruptions. More time to reflect. More dining out because we haven’t figured out how to cook for only two of us.
I can see that coin of change lying on the ground and we can only see the tails-side, not yet having the wherewithal to flip it over and see the heads-up side.
And at this moment, I’m just inclined to sit with it. To let it be. To experience all of the emotions that naturally occur to us during this time. To mourn what was and wonder if we did enough to give them all the tools and resources they would need in the big, bad world. “We’ll see” seems to be a common ending to our speculation.
We’ll see.
And we will. At some point, we’ll flip that coin over, and we’ll begin to see what’s possible for us too. We’ll start dreaming again about all the stuff we still have to experience on this earth and the places we’ll want to go.
We’ll figure it out because that’s what we do.
And they’ll figure it out also because that’s what we’ve trained them to do.
But for today, I have an empty office and a hole in my heart. And that’s ok too. I’m reminded that the day always follows the night. The light always follows the dark.
So my word of encouragement is to just let it be. Feel it all. We cannot know true joyfulness without an equal and opposite amount of sorrow. Feel it all.
Where are you rushing what is? Where can you take a moment to just let it be?